Sinister: Quoth the Parrot, "Nevermore!"

[robin stout]

One of the best things about a train journey is that, as you totter slowly 
along like a poodle on a dog track, you get to see the holey fences, knotted 
washing lines, crooked sheds and chintz curtains of Modern British Suburbia. 
Even better, at this time of year, if you’re lucky you’ll get to see a 
procession of Tesco, Sainsbury and Asda’s finest amateur fireworks displays. 
At one point on my journey home I felt as if I was a passenger on the train 
from Back to the Future, and the firework lights were bubbles of space glue 
as the sky melted around us and our line branched into a wormhole. Of 
course, if that had been true I’d have arrived home on time, instead of 
having to trudge home in the cold and wet, gloves and hat, at a quarter to 
bedtime.

When I was young dad would nail a Catherine wheel to the side of the rabbit 
hutch and give us our own little fireworks “display.” Even when it was in 
full whirl and the rabbits were jumping about with red, yellow and pink 
sparks reflected in their trembling eyes, I was looking over the fence at 
the neighbours’ display, which had rockets and bangers, golden fountains and 
roman candles. The neighbours always have a better display than you do – 
that’s the law until you’re thirteen and can buy fireworks of your own and 
EXACT YOUR REVENGE.*

So on one hand I was lucky, walking home all by myself, because I could see 
all the neighbours’ displays at once. I was thinking this to myself as I 
walked up the hill towards my house when a very noisy firework indeed fell 
at my feet. The blackened husk lay twitching for a bit and for some reason, 
instead of going home to put the kettle on, I bent down to have a look at 
the brightly coloured label that could still just be made out on the 
battered blob.

I looked closer. It wasn’t a label at all. In fact, it seemed to be a 
feather. The firework turned over and looked me in the eye.

“Squawk” it said.

“Poetry Parrot – is that you?”

The parrot, for it was he, painfully gave a little nod.

“Squawk” it said.

“But, what happened to you? Are you okay?”

The parrot painfully shook his little head, and his one remaining feather 
fell to the ground.

“Squ...” he said.

And then he dropped dead.

+++

As I dug a parrot sized hole in the back garden, alongside my vegetable 
patch, I began to think how it was funny that our rabbits always seemed to 
pop their furry clogs at this time of year too. Must be the weather or 
something.

+++
A mouth full of toast, I opened the letter without getting too much butter 
on it and moved into the sunlight. It was from Lucy Alder and it ended 
something like this:

=======================
And then I sent him on his
way, with instructions to visit...

*Mr Robin Stout*

...because I’m reasonably sure that he’ll look after the Parrot and keep him 
alive – WON’T YOU?
==========================

My toast became as tasty as yesterday’s socks. All that responsibility and 
what had happened? The famous Poetry Parrot was taking composting lessons 
from the worms in my back garden. Well, it’s not like it was my fault, 
though, was it??

I felt a little guilty and walked out to the little mound of soil. At least 
he had gone to a better place. I was reminded of a poem:


For an old wizard - by John Hegley

your boy brought me to you
in the hot Welsh hills
I had lost a love
and thought I’d not recover
soon after my arrival
you dished me up a plate
heaped to stupidity
with mashed potato
and all I thought of
was her
the next morning
you got us up at eight
(you’d let us lie in ‘til late)
and you made us spade out potatoes
until that baking day’s close
until all I thought of
was potatoes


As I whispered the last words the very spuds underneath my feet began to 
a-quiver and a-tremble. I looked down at my feet. I blinked. There was the 
Poetry Parrot, shaking soil out of his shiny, colourful feathers and looking 
at me with an enigmatic smile – a tricky job for a parrot at the best of 
times, even more so when he’s just climbed from an early grave.

“Oi, fuckface! What did you go and bury me there for, eh? Down in the jungle 
next to the carcass of a dishy young toucan, that’s the place for me, not in 
some stinking vegetable patch in your cocking yard next to your cunting 
potatoes!”

“Oh,” I replied, a little hurt. “I thought that, well, seeing as you were 
dead... Sorry about that, by the way...”

“Eh, what’s that ya big bastard?” cursed the parrot as he dusted off his 
gleaming plumage.

“Sorry, you know, for burying you when you weren’t dead.”

“Weren’t dead? Oh no, I was dead alright, good and proper, you could have 
stuffed a pillow with me feathers and I wouldn’t have even chirped.”

“So how come...?”

“How come I’m as handsome and gorgeous as ever?? Well, you reading that 
godawful poem must have shaken up some strange spirits. There’s a lot around 
at this time of year, you know. And so, the forces of evil being what they 
are, they decided that as punishment for you for that stupid verse, they’d 
turn me into a zombie parrot,” he said, fixing me with a yellow bloodshot 
eye. “So bend down a bit, would you, so I can eat your brains out.”

“What?? Eat my brains out?”

”Yeah, sausage head. That’s me job, you know. No offence.”

“No offence?! I’ve done you a favour, you stinking bird. You should be 
grateful! Now, shake your feathers then beat it. Fly to Leicester and to 
Maddie. I’m sure her brains are tasty, if they’re anything like the rest of 
her.”

“Oh I suppose so,” said the Parrot. “Your brains aren’t up to much anyway 
mate. Probably taste like rhubarb. I’m off to find some brains full of juicy 
thoughts. Toodle pip.”

Then with a hop and a flap he was off, flying over the charred fences, sooty 
washing lines, burnt sheds and melted curtains of Modern British Suburbia.

So, sorry Maddie, there’s a zombie parrot on the loose and he wants your 
brains. But I think a good poem would do just as well...

Robin x

*erm, don't do this kids!

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